Shaken, Not Stirred
by Simply Shelby
Summary: A hint of intrigue, a drop of angst, a dash of humour. A bit of everything, really. Shake well before opening. All my responses to The Firm's Monthly Prompt Challenge.
1. April Showers

**April Showers 2009  
By Simply Shelby**

**Reaper**

Riders and Reapers aren't exactly enemies.

Reapers don't necessarily target the Rider family or anyone close. No matter how much it might seem to be that way, it simply isn't. When a person's time is up, it's up. It's the way life is. And it's not as though Reapers scour the earth for Riders to off.

Reapers are like door to door salesmen. They work off a list, going from loction to location and collecting. Only they have nothing to give in return for a life. Perhaps, they are more like door to door burglars. Except, they aren't in charge. They have no say about who they take and who they don't. They don't have the power to manipulate Fate or change Fate's mind. Only Death can make decisions.

But Reapers and Riders aren't exactly friends, either.

And it doesn't matter how many times Alex cheats death or sends another life in his place, one truth remains constant.

Death will always win.

Alex is simply waiting his turn.

* * *

**Snowflake**

Jack's first Christmas at the Rider house was not what she would call pleasant.

First, she'd decided to bake cookies. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, how could it be Christmas if there weren't sugar cookies cut in little Christmas tree and star and reindeer and ribbon shapes? But, Alex had asked her what on earth a 'cookie' was Jack had explained and Alex had told her that it was a 'biscuit'. She shook her head and explained that a 'biscuit' wasn't sweet and it was like fluffy bread you were supposed to eat with butter and jelly.

And then she'd had to explain just what 'jelly' was.

Suffice to say, the cookies had been forgotten and the fire department had been called.

Secondly, she'd mentioned to the police officer that they'd been making the cookies for Santa. Alex had stared at her with a blank, slightly confused look, but--thankfully--he'd had enough common sense to wait until later to ask. By that time, Jack was getting slightly fed up with questions she couldn't answer. Or questions, that even when she did answer, she was met with blank stares that made her feel like she was speaking another language.

And then she had tried explaining in a different language. Several, actually.

So, when Ian Rider drove up to his Chelsea home late Christmas Eve and began asking more questions she couldn't answer, it was little surprise that she burst into tears. The story came out in between sobs and apologies and Alex chirped in a a comment or two. Then, amidst the chaos of Jack's tears, the flashing lights of the fire trucks, the smoke from his burning house, and the flurry of snowflakes, Ian had simply laughed.

* * *

**Aut-O-matic**

If there was one thing Jack had learned in all her life experience, it was that most men were completely hopeless when it came to doing laundry. Ian Rider, more often than not, opted for the simple, albeit more expensive, solution. He sent it out. Jack, on the other hand, didn't like the idea of complete strangers handling her undergarments.

It was a rather dreary Sunday afternoon. The sky was too grey and the wind was too cold and it was days like these that reminded her of home. She'd spent the afternoon shopping. Ian was home, spending time with Alex, and she was free to do as she wished. After about three hours, she'd decided she wished to go home and do nothing but relax.

And, okay, maybe watch Ian and Alex interact a bit. The two could be so entertaining when they were together. Moments of complete cluelessness overlapped with moments of them being scarily on the same brainwave. They were so very much the same and so very different that Jack found the result amazing to witness. It made her believe that Rider men were capable of just about anything.

She turned the key and opened the door and suddenly knew that something wasn't right.

"Ian!" she heard the nine-year-old's voice screeching in exasperation, "I told you we should've just waited for Jack."

It was this day that Jack learned something new. Walking into the laundry room and glimpsing Ian and Alex under tonnes of soap suds and puddles of water, she came to a conclusion.

There's nothing Rider men can't do. Except, perhaps, laundry.

* * *

**History**

Alex's first word was not a word Ian ever wanted to be associated with.

Ian Rider never had any intentions of ever being a father. With his career, a wife and a family would be stupid and irrational. And would leave him with a weak spot in his flawless armour, a broken link in a strong chain, leverage against his career. And Ian Rider was awful fond of his career.

However, when he'd gotten word of his brother's and sister-in-law's deaths, he'd hastened to find their son. Then he'd rushed through all the legal hoops to gain custody of the boy. From then on Ian Rider had become the sole guardian of one Alexander Rider.

Guardian? Absolutely. Caretaker? Sure. Uncle? Not that he'd ever let Alex call him that. Father? Never.

"Da."

Ian glanced up slowly from his paperwok and met his nephew's eyes. The infant was resting on a blanket spread out across the study carpet, and though his tiny hands kept grasping at air, his meaning was pretty damn clear.

Ian's eyes narrowed at the boy. "I am _not_ your father, Alex."

Apparently the kid wasn't having any of it. His fingers closed and opened in Ian's general direction and he repeated, louder, "Da. Da. Da. Dada!"

Ian stood, abruptly, pushing his chair back in a flurry of anger. Looming over Alex, he boomed, "I am _not_ your father, Alex!"

His nephew's eyes widened at the loud voice full of rage and he seemed to ask in a confused tone, "Da?"

Stalking to the side drawers, Ian jerked the bottom one open and pulled out a box. It landed heavily on the blanket beside Alex. The boy flinched at the sound, but kept staring at his uncle. The man in question settled down on the rug and opened the box.

"Dada?"

A photo was extracted--a photo of John and Helen's wedding. The two of them beaming brightly at the camera, Ian and Ash with their arms slung around the couple. "_That's_ your father." His index finger stabbed the 2-D John in the face. Curious, Alex's grabby fingers smeared across the photo. Ian let him take it. He had an entire album full, after all. John and Helen's things... personal effects. He shook away the though and continued pointing people out. People Alex would never know. "And that's your mum, Helen. They both loved you very much."

He had to pause. Alex was staring at the now crumpled and damp photo with intense concentration. Ian wasn't so sure he could do this now. Wasn't so sure he could ever do it. But, someone someday would have to explain everything to Alex. And, God, he never wanted that someone to be him. He picked the infant up, placing Alex safely in his lap, and brushed a hand over the boy's hair.

They both stared at the photo.

"You see, it all started when..."

* * *

**AN:** Forgive me for being late, I've been out of the country (my current country, anyways) for the better part of April. Enjoy!


	2. May Flowers

**May Flowers 2009  
By Simply Shelby**

**Accusation**

"You cheated."

Snake quickly turned around to face the blatant accusation. A large pile of large notes was quickly, and creatively, hidden as one of the men he'd just won all the money from stalked towards him, looking quite unhappy. The SAS soldier blinked in the face of the man's anger and stabbed a thumb into his chest in the universal gesture for, 'Who me?' while looking around him to see if the man could be talking to anyone else.

"Yeah, you! You lousy, cheating bastard!" the man's voice drew the eyes of most of everyone in the pub, not to mention the ears of everyone loitering outside. "You and your friend hustled us!" the man accused and was suddenly joined by several other familiar men.

"And we don't take kindly to being hustled!" Another put in.

Snake, not a bit confused as to what they were referring, questioned, "What friend?" Eagle was instantly spotlighted, the surrounding crowd of slighted men parting easily to make his presence apparent. "Him?" Snake's voice sounded astonished, "He's not my friend."

"He's right," Eagle spoke up, "I don't even know his name. For all I know, he could be a cheating _snake_."

Snake seemed to take offense, "I'm not the _eagle_ preying on these fellows' hard-earned money!" Honestly, what were they doing bringing code names into this little con?

"Why you little--" Eagle lunged forward, but was held back by several men closest to him. They were bewildered at what had just happened. The two partners in crime had suddenly turned against each other.

Snake laughed derisively and turned to leave.

"Fucking halfwit!" Eagle yelled, as planned, and Snake turned on his heel.

He threw the first punch. As planned, of course.

The right-hook was aimed for Eagle's head and the restrained man noticed that his compatriot was taking his sweet time in landing the stupid punch. He took personal offense at that. After all, he _had _been trained in how to duck. It wasn't like Snake had to pull punches or anything. Which, he wasn't. At least, not literally.

In any case, the right-hook flew over his ducked head and landed squarely on the nose of the man behind him. Then, in all due fashion, the crowd within the pub broke into a free-for-all.

From his vantage point beside the door, Wolf rolled his eyes and downed the rest of his pint. "Snake! Eagle!" he barked, "Get your arses over here!"

Everyone froze at the tone and stared at the lone soldier by the door. Eagle scurried out of the foray, Snake in tow. "We'll do this again sometime, gentlemen," he offered.

The door slammed shut behind the three men.

* * *

**Sleepwalking**

John tried the front door.

Locked. As he knew it would be, but, still, it never hurt to try.

Behind him, Ian swore. And not as quietly as he could have. Shooting a glare at his brother, John moved over to the window. It slid open soundlessly. He gestured to Ian and they tumbled neatly into the parlor. Breathing a sound of relief in tandem, they headed towards the stairs, confidant that they were now in the clear.

The lights switched on.

"Hold it." Their father's voice was low and annoyed and slightly amused at their sneaking. John signalled for his brother to retreat to the hall and Ian nodded his thanks. "Ian Rider." The eldest Rider stopped the youngest in his tracks, "Don't think you can slither out of this."

The brothers turned, as one, to face their father.

The man in question, dressed in his pyjamas, was seated in his favourite chair in the far corner, feet propped on the footstool. A half a tumbler of bourbon was on the table to his right accompanied by a dime novel. His eyebrows were arched and his face was entirely too smug for the boys' liking. "Just what are you two doing?"

Ian's mind raced for an appropriate answer, preferably one that wouldn't land them in trouble for mucking around. John, however, was quick on the draw. "Sleepwalking," he deadpanned.

"Sleepwalking." Their father repeated, rolling the word around his mouth as if tasting its absurdity. "What? The both of you?"

"Yes, sir." The boys chorused.

From the look on his face, it was obvious their father realised just how stupid the question had been. After all, none of them could remember a time when the brothers hadn't done everything together. "Your mum's furious," he snapped, "So you'd better come up with a better excuse than 'sleepwalking' come morning."

The boys nodded simultaneously.

"Next time, Ian, keep your comments to yourself. Unnecessary noise gives away your position. Not to mention the fact that nobody wants to hear how fluently you can swear. Least of all your mother," he advised.

Ian blushed slightly, but tipped his head in acknowledgement, "Yessir."

"And, John," the man admonished, "You couldn't come up with anything more creative than the parlor window?"

But John simply shrugged it off, "Like I said--sleepwalking."

* * *

**Corruption**

Helen had insisted.

"I just need to know that he's going to be safe."

John Rider had stared at his wife wide-eyed in complete confusion. He'd heard somewhere that a woman's intuition was often spot-on and not something to be trifled with, but he simply couldn't see where she was coming from. "Helen, nothing's going to happen."

She hadn't wagged her forefinger in his face, but she'd come pretty damn close, "No. No. You can't say that to me. Ever since I met you, you've told me, 'What I do is dangerous, Helen. Anything can happen.' I'm just taking a page from your book."

"Okay," John conceded, "But even if something does happen to the both of us, Ash'll take care of Alex." She'd pursed her lips and he'd defended, "He's Alex's godfather. My_ best friend_, Helen." This conversation was really beginning to throw him.

She'd crossed her arms and looked away before whispering, "I don't trust him." And his wife knew him well, must have known the fury burning inside him in response to that statement because she rushed on, "He's changed, John," she asserted, "Ever since--" she broke off before concluding, "He's a different man now, John. Not one I want raising my son."

She was right about that. Ash _had _changed. In fact, there had been a time when John had harboured the theory that his best friend might be working for the other side. And not deep cover like John had been doing for what seemed like ages. No, he'd had this niggling feeling that Ash was working the opposite side of intelligence, really and truly. However, it was a theory John couldn't wrap his head around, no matter how much evidence was put before him.

But, still.

"I'll ask him." John didn't relish the thought of proposing guardianship of his son to his brother, but Helen had insisted. "In all likelihood, he's bound to tell me to shove it."

"Don't be ridiculous. Ian's never said no to you."

What was worse was that John feared Helen might be right.

* * *

**Incomplete**

Ian appeared in the wooden chair beside Alex.

In a swift side-glance, he took in his nephew's bruised lip and bloodied nose, his crossed arms and defiant posture. Stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back, careful not to bump the headmaster's desk, Ian asked, "You want to tell me what happened?"

Alex's nostrils flared and his tone was tinged with fury when he offered a curt, "No."

Distinctly reminded of his own time spent in the headmaster's office, Ian shifted uncomfortably. "Alex... I can't help you unless you tell me what happened."

The twelve-year-old glared at the desk in front of him, "I don't need your help."

Ian's eyes narrowed and his voice took on a particularly dangerous quality, "You want to try that again?"

Alex's shoulders hunched and his head fell forward, "'M sorry." Before he could say anything more, the door to the office opened and the headmaster stepped in. He was a tall, rather portly, man with a receding hairline and a pair of observant eyes. Ian had to stop himself from sliding down in his chair as the man sat behind his desk and fixed him with a firm stare.

"Mr Rider," he began and both Riders sat at attention. He smiled. "Mr Rider, your son was involved--"

Alex interrupted before Ian had the chance, "He's not my dad."

"Uncle," Ian explained.

"Ah." The headmaster nodded, understanding gleaming in his eyes. "Ah. As I was saying, your nephew was involved in a fight this afternoon. Thankfully, it was broken up before anyone was too beaten up. I was going to ask the routine questions, but I think I have an idea as to why this might have happened. Starting with the fact that you're his uncle and ending with _this_." He set down one of Alex's literature assignments on the desk.

Ian glanced at it. It was marked 'Incomplete' in bright red ink. Ian turned to his nephew whose face was as bright red as the ink. The boy reached forward and snatched up the paper, holding it against his chest. Ian's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Well," the headmaster concluded, standing to his feet, "I'll leave you to it." He shut the door behind him.

Gently, Ian pried the paper from Alex's hands. The kid was more tense than Ian had ever seen him and he was looking anywhere but at his uncle. Ian read the title. And cursed, softly. "Alex..." he began, but didn't know where to go.

Alex shrugged. "It's just some stupid project."

The man swallowed and said thickly, "Yeah."

Nothing more was said. The two Riders leaned back into their seats, heads bowed, and did a successful job of ignoring the situation at hand. Ian glanced down at the title once more, feeling his heart sink slowly into his stomach.

The title read: Mother's Day Assignment.

* * *

**AN:** In regards to Corruption--While I am very much aware that a godparent's relationship with a child is in no way legal, I like to think that the Riders would have legally made Ash Alex's guardian after their death. Until, of course, Helen insisted Ian take over. And, yes, I do realise I'm taking a tonne of creative license. Hope you enjoy!


	3. June Bugs

**June Bugs 2009  
By Simply Shelby**

**Sarcasm**

Sarcasm is, Alan Blunt has always believed, the poor man's wit.

He rarely uses it himself and scorns those who use it against him. Those people he regards with disdain before getting rid of them completely. That is, until, he comes across the sarcasm-ridden young teenager named Alex Rider. The boy's attitude strikes him as curiously bold. Not very many people turn down MI6 and live to tell the tale, after all.

Still, the boy is young and with youth comes foolishness. And Alan Blunt has always gotten what he wanted. The boy gives in, like Alan knew he would, but not without a steady stream of sarcasm. Never has victory come with such a grating price. After several meetings, Alan Blunt is almost convinced that the only reason the boy is so sarcastic is because he knows it bothers the head of MI6. Which, of course, is all but impossible.

Yet, Alan Blunt has learned, impossible means very little to the Rider boy.

As the boy grows up, the sarcasm becomes worse until Alan Blunt thinks that it might, perhaps, be some sort of disease. Like a growing cancer. And, all of a sudden, it seems as though all of his well-trained agents have taken a liking to the swift, torturous technique. Of course, all his men are fools. But, in comparison to smart-alecky teenage boys, he would have hoped they were somewhat less foolish.

The boy is in his office again, after some mission that has likely save millions of people without anyone knowing it, and it is as though every cheeky word out of his mouth is deliberately sarcastic. Alan Blunt has had enough.

"Your input," he tells the boy slowly, "is greatly appreciated. Your comments will be taken into consideration. Now get the hell out."

Alan Blunt can hardly believe the words. Alex Rider seems more surprised than he. He, Alan Blunt, being sarcastic.

But sarcasm is also, as Fyodor Dostoevsky truthfully put it, 'the last refuge of... people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded.'

So, he thinks, Alex Rider has every right to use it.

* * *

**Heaven**

One of the most perfect days Alex can remember is the day Mrs Jones made good on her promise.

It had been an ordinary day, as ordinary as a day in the Rider house can get, when he'd been asked to come to Liverpool Street HQ. That in itself had been an anomaly, but soon after it was to become a regular occurence. He'd arrived and Mrs Jones had sat him down in a large conference room and proceeded to tell him everything she could remember about his father.

He'd gaped at her, drinking in the information, and when she'd finished talking he began asking questions. _What did his voice sound like? Was he funny? Did he follow orders? How did he meet my mother?_ And when he began asking questions she couldn't answer, she'd pressed the intercom and more people had appeared.

John's fellow spies from MI6 had been first--first in order to recount stories that were supposed to have been classified, but Mrs Jones had made an exception--and they said _brilliant_ and _idiot_ and _good man_. They talked of a man who was quick-minded and good at improvisation and who would do anything not to fail. A man who took orders well but never went against his better judgement. Then, they admitted softly: _a lot like you, Alex_.

Several of John's buddies from his days in the Paras followed and they told him _brave_ and _patriot_ and _loyal_. There were stories of a hero who disregarded his own life for the good of others, stories of a great leader whose presence inspired men, stories of a man who lived his life. _Proud of you_ they murmured in agreement.

He'd been surprised when a group of women filed in--friends of his mum's he was told. _Loved your dad like nothing else_, he remembers them saying, _overjoyed when she realised you were coming along_. He supposed that was when he'd started crying. _Bold_, they described, _but gentle all the same_. And then, something that echoed in his ears: _lived to help people_.

At the end of the day, it had been him and Mrs Jones. Alex's eyes were burning with tears, but the smile on his face was bright. It seemed as though some lost part of his soul had finally settled itself deep within his chest. He felt whole.

"Thank you," he whispered reverently.

* * *

**Metal**

Most people thought Tom Harris wasn't so bright.

And, to be honest, he wasn't exactly a genius--at least not on paper. But Tom Harris understands things very few people grasp. They aren't complicated things or things that are difficult to work out, but they are simple things that people normally don't take the time to notice. They are the things like the sound of wind whistling past his ears as he sprints and the weight of a football between his feet and the feeling of dread filling his stomach seconds before his parents erupt into arguments. They are things most people usually ignore, but Tom notices.

Because Tom Harris is one of those people who takes the time to smell the fucking roses.

Which was probably why Tom knew his best friend wasn't sick, had never really been sick, and probably wouldn't be sick in the future--dead uncle or no dead uncle. It was why he had seen the mottled bruises and puffy scars across his friend's skin when Alex quickly stripped and re-dressed in gym, but didn't think abuse. And it was why Tom had caught that look--desperate, defeated, determined--in Alex's eyes when he thought no one was looking.

Everyone knew that there was something going on with Alex Rider, but no one knew what it was.

Unlike everyone else, though, Tom knew what it wasn't.

And finally, unlike everyone else, Alex had told Tom what it really was. Tom had been prepared to laugh in his friends face when he heard the fanciful story of spies and assassins and saving the whole goddamn world. But, even though Tom couldn't solve quadratic equations or write meaningful haikus, he understood some things. And in that moment he understood that Alex was telling the truth and desperately needed someone to believe him.

Tom knew Alex was like steel, unyielding and formidable.

But there was something Tom Harris understood.

Steel always needed reinforcing.

* * *

**Fleeting**

For the first time in a very long time, Alex Rider wished his father was still alive.

It was something he'd wished every once in awhile growing up. Like the times where Ian had to work and Alex had a football match to play. Or when he'd gotten into a fight at school and Ian didn't punish him. Or when he'd thought he'd fallen in love for the first time and Ian just smiled.

It wasn't that Ian didn't love him or he didn't love Ian. It was simply that Ian wasn't his father and Alex wasn't Ian's son. People say that you can never miss what you never knew, but Alex knows differently. Because he never knew his parents, the empty feeling in his sould is compounded.

Alex tried his best over the years to ignore the yearning to know more. After the first few years of his life he realised that asking Ian was probably not a good idea. Whenever a question popped up, he stored it deep in his heart rather than asking. That is, until he'd come across the box of photographs hidden in his uncle's bottom desk drawer.

At that point, the emotions he buried came vomiting up and Ian was left muddling through the swamp of questions. And, still, Alex received no answers.

Then, he'd been faced with MI6 and SCORPIA and Julia Rothman and more answers than he wanted. Right when he thought he was beginning to understand who his father was--assassin, criminal, betrayer--Mrs Jones had told him the truth. And he finally understood everything. He realised that understanding didn't change the way he felt.

Alex still wished his father were here. Simply so Alex can ask him, "Was it worth it?" He has a feeling his father wouldn't say no. Alex looks down at his son in his arms and prays because his parents have taught him just how fleeting life is and that is one thing he never wants his son to understand.

For the first time, Alex thinks he understands why his father gave everything up for Alex. And why Ian never did.

* * *

**AN:** As you can probably see, I muddled through this set of prompts. I hope you enjoy them, nonetheless.


	4. July Sunrays

**July Sunrays 2009  
By Simply Shelby**

**Denial**

Jack was leaving.

"I don't want you to go."

"That didn't work with Ian," the redhead puffed as she slowly filled her suitcases, "And it's not going to work with me."

Alex glared at her from where he was perched on the edge of the bed, arms crossed and pouting. "Where will you go?"

Haphazardly folding another blouse and throwing on top of the overflowing suitcase, his psuedo-sister glanced over at him. "Alex. I thought we already talked about this? You told me everything was cool."

His glare intensified. "Where will you go?" he repeated.

She sighed and crossed her arms back at him. "I don't know yet. And that's the point of the thing. I don't _want_ to know where I'm going, I just want to go."

"Why?"

The stark rawness in his voice made her freeze. "You're twenty-years-old, Alex," she explained softly, "You don't need a nanny anymore."

"You were never a nanny, Jack."

She flicked her hand as if to shoo away the negative answer. "It's not like you ever needed one, anyways."

"Don't go. Please."

"Alex..." she hesitated, slightly. "This isn't... it isn't exactly healthy. For me or for you. I can't stay." He tried to interrupt, but she cut him off, "It's not like you'll never see me again. You can call anytime you like. I can come stay over--"

"Why don't you just stay _here_?"

"Alex--"

He turned his back. "Just go. Leave."

She reached a hand forward and laid it on his shoulder. "I'm not leaving _you_, Alex."

But she was still leaving.

* * *

**Eyes**

Cold, dull eyes stared back at him from behind steel bars.

"You're dead." Alex whispered, accused, and the eyes flickered away. "Another lie."

"No." The man's voice echoed harshly, reverberating against the grey, concrete walls.

He moved to strike his fist against the steel, but restrained himself before the flesh could make contact. "Are you saying you're a ghost come back to haunt me? To drive me mad until I submit?" His opened palm fell flat against his leg.

"I am not dead, Alex. I do not pretend to be anything other than what I am." The words mocked him in their honesty.

"Yassen Gregorovich is dead. I watched him die."

"The man you knew is dead. Forget about him, Alex."

"Who are you?"

The eyes watched him back. "Who I am is unimportant, Alex."

Something snapped inside the boy. "Stop calling me that."

"Who are _you_, Alex?"

Alex's hands shook and he stared into the hidden, familiar eyes. "Tell me about him," he demanded softly, sinking to the hard floor and folding his knees. He had no intention of forgetting. "Tell me how he came to be."

Eyes watched him cautiously and began their story.

* * *

**Family**

Orphan.

Alex had never really applied the word to himself before. He'd been too young to remember the loss of his parents. The thought had skittered across his mind at his uncle's funeral, but Jack had been there to banish it away.

"He's quite a brilliant child, isn't he?" Elizabeth Pleasure was watching his son intensely from her seat on the parlor sofa.

His mother-in-law had dropped in for a short, untimely visit. Sabina had rushed out to an emergency at the office just moments before Elizabeth had appeared on the doorstep. It was the sort of timing that put Alex's senses on alert.

"I imagine he must be a lot like you when you were that age. Your parents must have had a difficult time of it."

Alex shrugged and kept an eye as his son toddled against the bookshelves. "By that age, my parents were already long dead."

The woman stood and efficiently confiscated a familiar artifact from Ian's travels and replaced it with the boy's dummy. "That's right. Sabina mentioned that your uncle raised you. I just didn't realise how young you had been."

"Yes, you did." Alex called her bluff. "It's why you're here in the first place. And I appreciate your concern. Really."

She sunk back down into the sofa. "I should have known better than to con a conman."

"Is that what you think I am?"

Mrs. Pleasure huffed. "Would you prefer to be called a spy?"

"Government intelligence agent, actually." He smiled grimly. "Your husband?"

She nodded. "He came across some information on the Riders. Your father. Your uncle. Even your godfather. It wasn't that much of a stretch to think you..." Elizabeth switched tactics. "They all--"

"Died."

"Well, yes." Her eyes turned to his son again. "We've just wondered... you have a family. Why--"

Alex let his eyes focus on his son, as well. "I've been doing this since I was fourteen-years-old, Mrs. Pleasure. I've made many enemies over the years. Too many to simply walk away. Working for MI6 offers me and my family a certain amount of security and stability. Enemies are kept at bay and my family is kept safe. Without that safety net..."

The toddler reached up to grip the photo frame of Alex's parents at their wedding. And Alex swore anew to never let the past repeat itself.

Orphan.

His son would never feel this sort of hurt.

Ever.

* * *

**Hunger**

"You do know you can't live off of orange juice?" Sabina Pleasure peered inside the Rider fridge only to pull back at the lack of response. "Alex?"

The man in question didn't look up from the papers spread across the kitchen table, floor and counters. "Hmm?"

"You have five bottles of orange juice and nothing else." Her voice was disapproving.

Alex shrugged, comparing two papers and frowning. "I like orange juice," he protested, absently.

She splayed a hand across his point of view. "But what do you eat?"

There was a slight pause as Alex bent down and shuffled a few papers on the floor, laying them out like a giant jigsaw puzzle that only made sense to him. "Take away?" he offered finally.

"You can't live off of take away, either."

"Okay," he agreed amicably.

Seeing a pattern in his chaos, she switched a few papers around with her toes, filling in the edge pieces of his puzzle. He nodded his permission and thanks. "Of all the things MI6 doesn't do for you, couldn't they at least pick up your shopping?"

He glanced sideways at her. "Isn't that why I keep you around?"

She toed her trainers back on and kissed his temple. "How does curry sound?"

"That's fine." He smiled. "As long as you're not cooking."

* * *

**AN:** I promised myself that if I would write about Yassen, I could indulge myself in the other bits. As I don't have much experience writing him and honestly struggle with his character, please tell me how I did.


	5. August Moons

**August Moons 2009  
By Simply Shelby**

**Broken**

"Ash is his godfather for a reason, John. I thought we'd agreed on this?" Ian gestured to the spirits cabinet and his brother shrugged. Sighing, he measured out two glasses of bourbon, handing one to the elder Rider.

"I need someone I can trust." The infliction in his voice was miserable and afraid. Very afraid. Too afraid.

Ian stopped short of taking a sip. "Scorpia?" he asked in disbelief.

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "God, I hope not." He tipped the entire glass down his throat and held it out for a refill. "But I know better."

"Does Helen know?"

A harsh laugh breathed through his lips. "She insisted."

"A woman's intuition, John?"

"It's a proven fact that women can read thoughts and face much quicker than we can." John defended. "They can understand underlying emotions in a situation. You'd be surprised."

"Yes," the younger Rider agreed, "I would."

"She also said you couldn't say no."

Ian lifted his brows in disbelief. "You can tell her I told you to shove it."

John laughed, for real this time. "That's what I said you'd say."

"I'll take him, John."

* * *

**Attention**

"Dad," his five-year-old son complained, hands on his hips and lips pouting. "You're not listening."

Alex looked up from the papers strewn across his desk, then pushed it all away. "I'm sorry, kiddo."

Saving the world could wait.

* * *

**Command**

"All your experience sneaking around is worthless out here," Wolf explained in a low voice. "You can't lie to MK47s because they don't give a damn."

Cub--adult or not, he was still Cub--opened his mouth to protest, not flinching under the unceasing bullets.

Wolf cut him off. "You stay on my arse, Cub." He glanced at the firearm in the kid's hands then at his own and smiled grimly. He might not be able to order MI6 into keeping Alex out of the field, but he sure as hell could protect him while he was out here.

* * *

**Neutral**

"No. No way. I'm not doing it." Twelve-year-old Alex Rider glared at his uncle.

"That's odd," Ian hummed, staring down at the recipe book with a look of befuddlement. "I don't remember asking you."

Alex growled. "That's because you didn't!" He waved the advertisement papers angrily in the air. "I don't want to do ballroom dancing!"

Pursing his lips, Ian frowned at the salt he'd picked up. "How much, do you suppose, is a pinch?"

"You're not even listening to me." Alex accused, crossing his arms across his chest and jutting his chin out stubbornly.

Ian didn't look up. "Of course I am. You've just decided ballroom dancing would be a great new activity to balance out your karate. I'm sure this will be the case. It will build different muscles and allow you more dexterity when you compete."

Alex stared in disbelief and protested, "That is _not _what I said."

"I know. I'm choosing to use natural chi with you. Ugh. Where is that woman when I need her?" Ian muttered under his breath, then yelled, "Jack!"

"So, you're refusing to engage with me?" Alex asked, thinking of his karate lessons. "We're not fighting."

Finally, Ian turned to face his nephew. "Aren't we? I've sure had to duck quite a few negative chi attacks."

"We can't be fighting because one of us is being _neutral_," he spat out the word.

The elder Rider raised an eyebrow and fixed the boy with a steady gaze. "Alex, you've been looking to argue with me since I got back." He tugged the papers out of Alex's hand and set them on the table. "What's this really about?"

"It's about these stupid lessons you've signed me up for!"

The man smiled grimly and turned back to the counter. "You'll do fine, Alex. You shouldn't worry."

"You're not listening! You never listen! You don't care!" Furious, Alex screamed, banging his fists against the table.

"You're right," he conceded. "I don't care. I don't care that dancing lessons will help with your coordination and it will build different types of muscles. I don't care that you yelling at me will make your throat hoarse. Or that Tom beat your time on sports day." He paused. "Or that I missed your birthday last week."

Alex froze.

"I'm a lot less neutral than you think, Alex."

* * *

**AN: **Packing for university may be much less difficult than packing to travel the world, but it is still time consuming. Wish me luck!


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